


Candy

by StrayLiger



Category: Bloodborne (Video Game)
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Drabbles, Friendship, Mild Gore, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, some friendly roasting, what is cannon to a god
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-09
Updated: 2020-04-10
Packaged: 2020-08-16 02:53:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 12
Words: 18,706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20171362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StrayLiger/pseuds/StrayLiger
Summary: Eileen knows the Hunter has arrived before she even turns around.





	1. Candy

**Author's Note:**

> Part of some Bloodborne drabbles abt my Hunter OC Mia Hawke interacting with different characters that I've been writing as I progress through the game. Very. Very slowly. I probably won't update consistently and these will definitely not be in chronological order. Enjoy some Eileen

Eileen knows the Hunter has arrived before she even turns around.

Despite the years and against all odds, her hearing is still as sharp as when she was young, and she can hear her footsteps clearly, even when the Hunter tries to be quiet. She still remembers the first time the Hunter found her, there in her small refuge in Central Yharnam, right by the sewers. She’d all but crashed through crates and barrels and all but faceplanted at Eileen’s feet, and Eileen had stared at her with eyebrows raised as she scrambled to her feet, her only eye wild with terror.

The Crow is forced to keep herself from smiling, even though she knows Mia Hawke won’t see it behind her mask, and remains still as the Hunter walks up to her, letting the heavy Hunter’s Axe she carries fall to the ground with a sigh. From the corner of her eye, she sees her take off her hat and shake her head. Her hair, smooth, black and absurdly long, with a single white streak, falls over her shoulders and face even when she tries to push it back.

“Rough night?” Eileen asks dryly, unable to help the mocking tone in her voice.

“Shut up” Mia all but growls, making her snicker.

“How many times?” the older woman asks. The young Hunter purses her lips. From where she stands, Eileen can’t see her expression: the left side of her face is covered in scar tissue, and a cobweb of silver scars has sealed shut the empty socket of her eye. Eileen never has asked about it and doesn’t intend to: she’d rather not get too acquainted with Hunters, since there’s a good chance she might have to get rid of them eventually. 

“Eight” the Hunter mumbles after hesitating for a moment, and Eileen chuckles, unable to help it, earning herself a fierce glare as she turns to look at her with her only eye. It’s a very pale grey color, that Eileen has seen very few times before in Yharnam.

“That Cleric Beast is a tough one” she offers, to appease the younger Hunter. Eileen’s not intimidated by anger, specially not the one of young ones, and particularly not by the anger of young ones who are barely tall enough to reach a grown man’s shoulder. Eileen’s known her share of female hunters, of which a good bunch were smaller women, but Mia Hawke is small enough that Eileen wonders sometimes how she’s survived for so long. If she isn’t lying, the Hunter is around 30, and assures having been a soldier in the past, and Eileen is  _ almost _ sure she doesn’t lie, but she can’t help but wonder. Still, she fights like someone who knows what she’s doing, and makes up for her bluntness with determination and perseverance and an unexplainable amount of physical strength.

“No shit” Mia grumbles, combing her fingers through the black mane. Eileen watches in silence. For her, having such long hair in this line of work seems absurd. She keeps it cropped as close as possible to her skull in order for her cowl to fit properly, and she imagines the Hunter has gotten grabbed by her ridiculously long ponytail more than once in a fight. Normally, she wouldn’t have had any qualms in telling this to the novice hunter. But she doesn’t say anything, and can’t really figure out why. Hawke finishes combing back her hair in silence.

Pulling a worn, light pink ribbon from her pocket, she ties her hair back into her usual ponytail. And then she stops. 

“Oh. Reminds me I got you something.”

Eileen’s eyebrows shoot up under her mask, as Mia reaches and shuffles into the neverending pockets of her coat, and then tosses her something. Eileen catches the bag and weighs it in her hand, turning to look at Mia questioningly. The Hunter, busy with pinning the hair that escaped her ponytail back into place, doesn’t return the look.

They have met a few times, and Eileen wouldn’t call their relationship a “friendship”. She doesn’t like having friends. She’s had enough of those in the past, and none have lived to tell the tale. Hawke doesn’t seem like the friendly type either, and at first they both tried hard to pretend not to like the other, but Eileen suspects she’s the only person the Hunter has met in Yharnam that hasn’t tried to kill her on sight, and she keeps coming to her even when she doesn’t need anything. They have grown used to the other, and against her will, Eileen has to admit that Hawke’s bluntness makes her laugh and that teasing her about it is much more fun that glaring at the darkness in silence.

“Well? Open it.” She tries to sound nonchalant, but it’s clear she’s looking forward to seeing Eileen react, so the Crow obliges.

She peeks inside the bag-and what she sees is so surprising it takes her a good half minute to react, as her brain slowly works to remember what it is.

“ _ Candy _ ?” she blurts out, incredulous, and her tone makes Hawke smile for the second time since she knows her, a grimace that twists the mangled skin of her scar and makes her look a lot angrier than she already does.

“Yup” the Hunter says proudly. Eileen grabs one from the bag, turning it between her fingers with her eyebrows raised. The bright colors are disorienting: she’s so used to the black and grey of the perpetual night that seeing this swirl of red and white has left her mind blank.

“Wherever in the  _ world _ did you find these?” she asks Hawke, who seems proud of herself, and Eileen realizes with a small startle that this is probably the first time the Hunter has heard her emote so clearly.

“Broke into a house” the other replies nonchalantly. When Eileen stares in silence, she shrugs. “What? I needed to hide, so I went into the pantry” she explains. “I meant to bring you cheese, but I ate it all while I waited until it was safe to leave, so I grabbed you these instead.”

The image of Mia Hawke locked inside a pantry, gorging herself on cheese while all the evils of Yharnam lurk outside the door is irresistible. Eileen can’t help a snort, and she shakes her head slightly.

“Surprised you didn’t eat them yourself.”

Hawke shrugs one shoulder.

“I don’t have much of a sweet tooth” she says.

“Is that so” Eileen says, grinning to herself. “Well, if you break into another pantry in the future, do keep in mind I enjoy cheese quite a lot.”

“I’ll keep it in mind if I can find a way to carry a pistol, an axe  _ and _ a giant wheel of cheese at the same time” Mia says dryly, making Eileen bark out a laugh. She catches the glint in the Hunter’s single pale eye, and she can tell she’s satisfied. Happy to have made her smile. The realization makes something similar to warm fondness bloom in Eileen’s chest, and for this once, she allows it to linger a few seconds. It’s been a while since anyone was so set on making her smile: few girls were able to, back when she was less jaded, and no men ever managed it. Eileen toys uncomfortably with the thought that maybe,  _ maybe _ , she’s starting to feel something like affection towards the younger Hunter -something like what she imagines birds must feel towards their chicks- before smothering it as usual and clearing her throat.

“Don’t you have somewhere else to be, pipsqueak?” she snaps, in her usual flat tone. The Hunter stretches her arms over her head until her shoulders pop. Then she places the hat back on her head and picks up her axe. She is left handed, but also blind on that side, so Eileen has to lean back a little bit to avoid getting smacked.

“Yes, Eileen, I can tell when I’m not wanted” she grumbles in mock offense. “No need to kick me out, you old bat.”

“Insolent brat.”

“Try not to break a hip while I’m out, you crone” Mia adds as she heads back into the darkness.

“Sod off.”

Eileen hears her snort as she disappears from sight, and once she’s alone again, she looks back at the candy she holds between her fingers and allows herself to smile openly. Slipping the colorful treat under her mask, she pops it into her mouth and lets sweetness spread over her tongue, and hopes that the young Hunter finds her way out of the endless night-or at least, that this time, she lives through her encounter with the Cleric Beast.

  
  
  



	2. Messages

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When she arrives into the Hunter’s Dream, the first thing she sees is the Messengers popping up at her feet, groaning and moaning, flailing their arms to attract her attention.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another small drabble, this time featuring Sevia, a Hunter made by my friend lawful-tired on tumblr.

When she arrives into the Hunter’s Dream, the first thing she sees is the Messengers popping up at her feet, groaning and moaning, flailing their arms to attract her attention.

Mia Hawke kneels down, taking off her hat and placing it on the ground next to her as she tucks her hair behind her ear.

“Hello, there” she greets, and her acknowledgement causes the little creatures to writhe in joy, making her smile. Unlike most people in the waking world, they aren’t bothered by her crooked, manic looking grin.

The first time she’d seen them, Mia had straight up screamed, because the memory of the blood-induced hallucination she’d experienced at the clinic too fresh still in her mind. It had taken a while for the Doll to convince her that they were harmless-and an ever longer time for her to convince Mia that they were, in fact, cute. Being a soldier, “cute” isn’t a word that made its way into Mia’s vocabulary often, for starters; but eventually their genuine eagerness and the way they danced in joy when she approached them and accepted their messages and gifts, had wormed its way into her heart. They are truly endearing, she thinks, as she extends a finger towards them and watches them grab it, like babies do. The messengers bony hands cling to everything she gives them instinctively: her hair, the ribbon she ties it with, the hem of her clothes, her hands. She finds it fun to hand them small twigs and watch them dance and squirm as if she’d given them a grand gift.

“You got something for me?” Mia asks, and the messengers immediately fumble among them, producing a piece of paper folded in four and presenting it to her. “Thank you” she says as she takes it, and watches them clap and throw their arms up, moaning with excitement. For the time being, Mia lets them be and opens the message.

It’s a simple message, but she recognizes the handwriting almost immediately.

_ Fucking spider infested nightmare. You’d love it here.-S _

Sevia is a Hunter, like Mia, and they’ve been exchanging this sort of short messages for a while now. She stumbled upon one of her notes by chance, and replied almost as a joke, but Sevia answered, and then Mia answered too, until it became a habit. Having never met each other, Mia doesn’t dare to call the other Hunter her friend; but it’s a fact that receiving her messages makes her feel less alone after a bad time in the waking world.

The small joy brings with it a share of worry. Sevia’s letters used to be almost pompous in tone-she seemed the kind of woman having been born with a steel rod up her ass, judging by her choice of words and the stiff, careful calligraphy of her first notes-and now her messages are sprinkled with colorful curses, and her handwriting is becoming hard to read, hasty scribbles that still try hard to be graceful curls and straight lines. One of her notes mentioned having seen from afar something called a “Winter Lantern”. Whatever it was, the notes afterwards made it clear that it had  _ damaged  _ her somehow. Mia still doesn’t understand a lot about the world she’s in, about the world Sevia is in, but she knows from experience that insight and knowledge don’t make it precisely easier to navigate, and as far as she knows, Sevia was way more knowledgeable and insightful than she is. On the plus side, she still has that abrasive sense of humor that made Mia so fond of receiving her letters.

They also joked about that: Mia told her about the shocking encounter with the invisible creature that lifted her in the air and crushed her like a nut in Cathedral Ward, wishing she could have at least seen what it was and Sevia had that replied simply with  _ Oh, no, darling _ .

Mia runs her thumb across the ink smudges on the paper. In one of their first exchanges, Sevia had commented on her handwriting-all caps, sharp and pointy and hard to read, full of smudges-and asked her humorously if she wrote with her feet. Mia had replied her that she wasn’t precisely wrong, as she was left handed, and the ink smudges on her messages had become a running joke between the two Hunters, until the Winter Lantern showed up. Unable to help herself, Mia frowns slightly, wondering if Sevia just forgot about the joke, or if she decided to drop it now that she was forced to write in such a crude manner, like Mia does. Neither of the two options comforts Mia.

The messengers tap her knees, demanding her attention with their moans, and Mia blinks, looking down at them, suddenly remembering herself and realizing she was lost in thought. The small inhabitants of the dream seem  _ worried _ , and Mia feels absurdly guilty.

“Yes, yes” she says, reaching into her pocket for her notebook and a pencil. “One second.”

Mia hums for a moment, tapping her lip with her quill, wondering what to write. Sevia used to jokingly complain at first about how simple Mia’s messages were. Being a soldier, and above all, a woman of few words, Mia had had to make a conscious effort to be more talkative, and the other Hunter had seemed to appreciate it. However nowadays she realizes that as Sevia starts to slip, so does her reading comprehension, and Mia has to think of the best way to get her message across with few words. What could she write about? She’s been trapped in Cathedral Ward for a while, and succumbed to the beast they call Vicar Amelia a few times. She’s died in Old Yharnam a couple of times, but hasn’t found the Blood-Starved Beast Sevia told her about yet. Finally, she settles for the easiest joke.

Furrowing her brow, her tongue poking out between her teeth in a gesture of concentration, Mia scribbles a few words.

_ Met a cute blonde today. Big and dumb, just my type. You’d love him.-M _

She can guess Sevia’s answer before she even finishes folding the note (the norm here seems to be to roll the paper, but Mia and Sevia have taken the habit of folding it, to make each other’s notes easier to recognize). She commented early that she disliked church types: when Mia asked about it, the other Hunter had replied curtly that she’d understand in time. Mia hasn’t known Alfred for long enough to decide if she likes him yet, but so far he hasn’t tried to bash her skull in on sight, which is a big point in his favor. 

“Tell her I said hi” she says quietly to the messengers, handing them the note. The creatures take it almost reverently, groaning enthusiastically. Mia knows they can’t speak, but she knows they like being talked to. They writhe and dance gleefully, and finally sink into the ground, disappearing with the message for Sevia, and after a moment of staring at the spot where they were, Mia finally stands up, picking up her hat. She feels strangely heavy.

Mia knows that the possibility of Sevia not answering again is very real. She’s seen enough of this world to know that it’s likely that one day Sevia will perish to whatever is consuming her. As a soldier, she should be used to the possibility of loss, but as a Hunter, the idea that this message might be the last one makes her heart seize painfully. Wherever the other Hunter is, whatever dream she’s having, she hopes she can make it out of it alive.

She sighs, and decides to stop thinking, as she starts walking up the road towards the Doll, that awaits patiently in her usual spot.


	3. A Tumble

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alfred’s smile is warm, Mia thinks. It’s a welcome sight, like sun after a stormy night… maybe? When was the last time she saw the sun? Does the sun also have that strange, unsettling edge to it?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just the first encounter with Alfred but with more words. It just be like that sometimes

She had meant to fight, she  _ swears  _ she did. 

But then again, she’s a soldier, and while she isn’t very bright, she’s not stupid. And even the dumbest person in the world can tell when they’re outnumbered. And this time she was  _ very  _ outnumbered: she was forced to haul ass, as fast as she could, desperately dodging pitchforks, and torches, and axes, and bites, on top of the shots of the shooter at the top of the stairs. There was a time when she liked dogs, she remembers, or thinks she remembers, but now she promises that she will never again get close to a bag of fleas with teeth, if she ever makes it out of Yharnam. She should’ve imagined that Cathedral Ward wouldn’t be much better than Central Yharnam. 

And now there she is, desperately running like a rabbit, cursing this city where every turn she takes is a wrong turn.

Running almost blindly, she dives right into the nearest doorway and finds an open landing surrounded by high walls. Her nose picks up a vague scent of incense, and she follows it on instinct, still running for her life-and as she takes another sharp turn to the right, hearing the dog’s maws clack in the air missing by millimeters the back of her coat, she suddenly feels the ground disappear under her feet.

Mia Hawke, the Hunter, rolls head first down the stairs with a  _ very  _ undignified yelp.

Her feet tangle around each other, her skull bangs against the stone, and then her shoulders, her back, her knees, her head again. The axe flies from her hand and falls with her, making loud  _ clangs  _ against each step, like hearing a madman ringing a church bell, and she vaguely thinks through the pain and the humiliation that the noise must have alerted every beast in Cathedral Ward of her presence. So much for stealth.

She has a vague vision of an altar, and a man in front of it, who’s turned to look at her in shock-because of course, what she needs on top of breaking every bone in her body is someone to be there to witness it-and then the world violently turns, and there’s a sudden flash of pain when her face lands on stone. For a minute, she can’t move: she remains like that, face down, ass up, feeling like her entire body is just a big bruise. She hears steps: resigned, she prepares herself for the worst, for the emptiness that comes with being killed, to wake up at the lantern inside the chapel one more time and for the greeting of the Chapel Dweller.

But instead, he hears a shuffle of clothing, and a male voice that speaks with genuine concern.

“Are you alright?” 

Shocked, Mia slowly looks up. The man she caught a glimpse of earlier is kneeling in front of her, and her first thought is that he is  _ big _ . His hair, and the mutton chops that frame his face, are an ashen blonde, and his eyes a very pale green, and he has a long, pointed nose. Being as small as she is, everyone seems large to her, and before she met Gascoigne, she’d always made it a point to not be intimidated by people bigger than her; but this one is tall, and built like a brick house, so it’s hard not to feel at least  _ a little bit _ threatened. When he offers his hand, Mia stares at it stupidly, realizing it’s big enough to wrap with ease around her neck. The robes he wears are blue-grey, and they make him seem even larger. She feels dwarfed by him, and when he moves towards her, she clumsily jumps backwards on instinct, landing on her ass. 

Startled, the man also pulls back slightly, before smiling. And of course, Mia is dumbfounded, because she can’t remember the last time anyone (besides the Chapel Dweller)  _ smiled  _ at her.

“That was quite a fall you took” he observes. “Are you hurt?”

“Huh” she blurts out, and he chuckles, as if she’d said something witty. She cringes, and swallows before answering. “No. I mean… No… I’m… okay, I think.”

“That is good” the man replies, and before she can say anything else, he grabs her by the arms-Mia doesn’t even have time to think about resisting-, and pulls her up to her feet with ease, as if she was made of air. Unused to being touched, she feels her entire body go stiff for a second, and she realizes, to her infinite annoyance, that she’s blushing. As soon as she’s back on her feet, she steps back again and out of his reach, looking away from his face with the excuse of fixing her clothes. 

“I, um. Thank you” she mumbles awkwardly, and doesn’t dare to look at him, because she knows he’s staring; he’s probably curious about her, and it’s been so long since she spoke to another human being in such a civil manner that she doesn’t think she can handle it. “I’m sorry for, uh…” For what? For falling down the stairs? For making a fool of herself? “...startling you.”

“It’s quite alright” he assures. The honest friendliness of his tone is disconcerting to her. And then he asks: “You’re a beast hunter, aren’t you?”

Mia looks up, her eyebrow raised.

“I… yeah.” She almost immediately regrets looking up, because he’s smiling still, and now that she notices, he has a nice smile (he even has all his teeth! and no fangs! she thinks, immediately growing worried at how low her standards have fallen since arriving to Yharnam), and it’s making her ears feel hot.

“I  _ knew  _ it! That’s precisely how I started out!” he says cheerily, before adding, in a more subdued tone: “Oh, I beg your pardon. You may call me, Alfred. Protegé of Master Logarius, Hunter of Vilebloods!” He offers his hand again, and Mia stares at it again blankly-it takes her a pretty long moment to realize what he wants, because it’s been way too long since anyone offered that kind of greeting, and the pause stretches for so long, that to her horror, she sees Alfred’s smile become considerably smaller.

“I-I’m sorry” she blurts out. “I’m… not a toucher.” To her surprise, Alfred doesn’t seem offended. He lowers his hand and nods, smiling broadly again. 

“I understand” he says, and Mia thinks that she can believe him. Clearing her throat, she decides to make an effort to be nice to him.

“Name’s Mia” she says. “Mia Hawke.”

“ _ Miss _ Hawke, then?”

“Just Hawke is fine.”

Alfred crouches to pick up her hat, dusting it off before handing it to her. Mia thinks about the word  _ vileblood  _ as she takes it. She feels like she should know, like she should remember, but it’s not a new feeling; she’s been having it since she woke up in that dark clinic, so she doesn’t linger on it.

“So, what say you?”

Mia blinks.

“Say what?”

“Our prey might differ, but we are hunters, the both of us” Alfred says then. “Why not cooperate, and discuss the things we've learned?” 

It’s a sudden proposal, and she has to admit that it’s taken her off guard, so for a moment she just stares, with her hat in her hand, and the part of her brain that didn’t suffer from her banging it repeatedly on the stone steps guesses that at this point Alfred, the Hunter of Vilebloods, must think that she is either hard of hearing or just extremely fucking stupid; but he doesn’t seem to be losing his patience, and she wonders if it is because he’s been alone for a long time, alone with nothing but that strange statue on the altar. She wouldn’t blame him for being willing to try and strike conversation with  _ anyone  _ at that point. At the very least, he hasn’t tried to gut her yet, which is more than she can say of most people in the waking world so far.

His eyes are such an interesting color, though. That pale green, like acid grapes, with very dark pupils. Alfred is so blonde that even his eyelashes are pale. Something about him is slightly unsettling, but not in a totally unpleasant way. What was it that Eileen had told her when they met?  _ I don’t like you, but I trust you _ .

Mia Hawke, the Hunter, decides that she doesn’t know if she trusts Alfred, but she likes him, and that is enough.

“I...” Mia rubs the back of her neck, before shrugging. “Yeah. Sure. Why not?”

There it is again: his sincere smile, that makes the corner of his eyes crinkle.

“ _ Oh-ho! _ ” he says, in such a satisfied tone that Mia has to keep herself from smiling too: she doesn’t want to ruin the moment with the sight of her awful, crooked smirk. “Very good, very good indeed! Take this, to celebrate our acquaintance.” Before she can ask what she means, Alfred rummages through his robes for what seems an absurd amount of time (how many pockets do those have? No wonder they make him look so large) and offers her something-a wad of rough papers that she takes after hesitating for a split second, and curiously rubs between her fingers. Alfred notices her confusion, and explains: “Fire paper. If you rub it on your weapon, it applies fire to it.” 

Mia’s eye lights up.

“Thank you” she blurts out, looking up at him, and again resisting the need to smile at him. “I will make good use of it.”

Alfred’s smile is warm, Mia thinks. It’s a welcome sight, like sun after a stormy night… maybe? When was the last time she saw the sun? Does the sun also have that strange, unsettling edge to it? Something about Alfred feels out of place, but she tells herself it’s probably because at this point, Yharnam and everything she’s seen so far are so full of darkness and danger and malice that things as simple and harmless as basic kindness feel out of place. She safely stashes the fire paper in the inside pocket of her jacket, again using the excuse to look away.

“Do you pray?” Alfred asks. She blinks, again taken off guard by the question.

“Pardon?”

“Are you religious?” Alfred repeats, making the question more direct this time. Mia hesitates: if anyone else had asked, she would’ve replied with a rotund no-but she doesn’t want to be rude to Alfred. And, why not admit it-nobody wants to be on the bad side of a potentially dangerous religious fanatic, specially not one big enough to snap her over his knee like a twig. 

“I, uh…” she starts to say, but he interrupts her with a chuckle, shaking his head slightly.

“I guess that answers my question” he says, amused, and Mia notices her ears growing hot for the third time that night. His gentle chuckle, like his eyes, has a strange tint to it that she can’t identify, not necessarily bad, but curious.

“I’m sorry.”

Alfred smiles again.

“It’s quite alright, Hawke” he assures, and hearing him use her name makes a shiver run down her spine. Even Eileen refuses to use it, and nobody else seems interested in it, so she’s not sure if it’s pleasant or not. “Beast hunting  _ is  _ a sacred practice regardless.”

“I… yeah” she agrees weakly. She clears her throat, putting her hat back on, and leans down to pick up her axe and her torch. She clears her throat again. “But I… I think I have to go, now.”

Alfred nods-and Mia catches a mischievous glint in his eye.

“Do watch out for stairs in the future, Hawke” he says. Mia takes a second to process what he’s saying, before realizing with a startle that he’s teasing her, and this time her face turns completely red. Oh, the  _ fucker _ , she thinks. Making fun of her! He has some nerve, but she can’t be angry at him-not when she deserves the teasing. “Not everyone you find at the bottom might be as happy to catch you as I am.” Her embarrassed, half hearted glare makes him chuckle again, and her heart does a little jump at the sound. 

“I’ll try my best” she croaks. Again, Alfred smiles at her as if she’d said something very smart, and as she starts walking up the stairs, already missing the scent of the incense that keeps the beasts away from Alfred’s small sanctuary, she hears him speak again.

“May the good blood guide your way.”


	4. A Better Place

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The second time she sees Henryk, Eileen is there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SO I fucked up and let Eileen die to Henryk by accident-I forgot NPCs actually die in the waking world-and it absolutely broke my heart, because I was looking forward so much to completing Eileen's quest. Anyway, I wanted to go back to my comfort zone and write something angsty and I did, so here it is.

The first time she sees Henryk, he’s so fast she barely has time to make out a bright yellow flash in her peripheral sight before he kills her. 

****

She tells Eileen, and jokes about how easily he finished her. 

Eileen doesn’t laugh; the Hunter can tell she doesn’t find how easily she seems to die as funny as she does. In her defense, death means very little when you keep waking up, back where you started, in this world. Mia Hawke, the Hunter, feels Eileen’s disapproval, and when the Crow makes her promise that she will leave the maddened Hunter alone, she swears. 

Eileen seems only mildly convinced: she knows Mia too well. They’ve known each other for very little, but it’s enough for the Hunter to decide she likes and trusts the Crow; she’s taught her important things, given her a good ear pulling when she needs one, and even comforted her in her own rough way. But also, Eileen knows now that Mia Hawke does not know when to quit.

Eileen knows her too well. Mia goes back to the Vicar, but Eileen probably knows she’s not planning to go back up to the Cathedral once the beast is done smashing her into a pulp for the umptenth time.

****

The second time she sees Henryk, Eileen is there.

Horrified, the Hunter makes out in the dim light the Crow’s feathered cape, her mask, and sees the flash of silver of her blades and the sparks as they collide with Henryk’s weapons. There’s blood on the ground, bloody steps on the cobblestones, smears of it on the tombstones. 

Eileen is a vicious, ruthless fighter: the way she uses the Blades of Mercy is almost beautiful in the way they draw graceful silver light arcs in the air before dealing a blow that could certainly cut a beast in half. But Henryk is faster, heavier,  _ angrier _ . A large feral cat toying with an old bird. Henryk shoots Eileen, and the old Crow staggers.

Mia’s heart seizes in terror as she jumps down the last steps, crying out Eileen’s name.

She gets to see Eileen raise her head in horror, and shout something ( _ Don’t! _ ), before Henryk sees her too; Hawke prepares her axe for a blow, but it’s already too late.

She dies.

****

The Hunter is back at the Oedon Chapel; but before the Chapel Dweller can even greet her, she’s running right back down towards the Tomb, scrambling down the passage at the highest speed her legs allow.

Mia doesn’t see Henryk, at first-but she does see something silver on the ground. She all but dives to pick it up, and when she realizes what it is it feels like all the blood in her body has gone cold.

Eileen’s badge.

Right before Henryk attacks her again, the Hunter sees Eileen’s motionless body propped against a tombstone, the feathers of her cape mangled and soaked with blood, the beak of her mask cracked, dripping red.

She dies.

****

The Hunter returns to the tomb immediately.

Henryk is there, and Eileen isn’t.

Henryk attacks her, and she dies.

****

Mia goes back down to the tomb.

“You  _ killed her _ !” she wails as she runs at Henryk, as soon as she spots him.

There’s no recognition in the former Hunter’s eyes: his pupils are collapsed. He jumps on the other Hunter.

She dies.

****

_ “You killed Eileen!!” _

She dies.

****

She dies.

And she dies again.

And again.

****

The sixth time, Mia Hawke doesn’t even bother to look at the Chapel Dweller, who by this point is wringing his hands in distress because she hasn’t stopped to acknowledge him, when she usually spares him at least a curt greeting. But right now, she feels as blind as he is.

She kneels next to the lamp, and goes straight into the Hunter’s Dream.

****

The Hunter falls to her knees as soon as she’s back in the dream, and cries, and cries, and cries. She throws her weapons aside, smashes a blood vial on the ground, practically rips off her jacket, pulls at her hair and  _ screams _ . 

Why is she here? why does she keep coming back, but Eileen  _ doesn’t _ ? 

She rips handfuls of the white flowers that grow everywhere, desperate to break something, to release at least some of the rage she feels. Her only eye is so clouded with tears that don’t stop pouring down her cheek that she can’t see; she’s sobbing so hard she feels like she’s turning inside out.

She can hear the Messengers moaning around her, their small bony hands tapping her thigh: she didn’t know they could remain like that in the dream, and she should feel curious about the fact that they seem to be able to tell that something’s wrong and are trying to comfort her, but the pain is so intense that she can’t think of anything right now.

It just isn’t  _ fair _ . It’s too cruel. She had felt something similar, when Gascoigne died, but Eileen herself had told her-the man was falling apart, he could not be saved. Eileen was nothing like Gascoigne: she was  _ human _ , with her brain inside her skull and her heart in its place. Eileen the Crow. The Hunter of Hunters. 

_ What are you still doing here? Enough trembling in your boots. A hunter must hunt.  _

Mia Hawke slams her fists on the wet earth and  _ screams _ and screams until her throat feels raw. Eileen had warned her about this. They shouldn’t have become friends. The waking world isn’t kind enough to allow friendships to last. It was Eileen’s way of saying she wouldn’t stand having to put  _ her _ down.

Eileen wasn’t supposed to die  _ first _ .

_ You stupid hag _ , she thinks.  _ You fucking bat, you dumb fucking crone. How could you? Why would you do something so fucking stupid?  _ But it doesn’t matter how angry she is at Eileen: Mia knows the one she’s angriest at is  _ herself _ . If she had only stayed put, and waited. If she’d gotten there in time. If she’d been stronger, faster, less fucking  _ stupid _ , she would have been able to help Eileen.

It’s  _ her _ fault, Mia thinks.  _ Her _ fault, and only hers. 

This is worse than killing father Gascoigne, much worse: the man had become a beast. He  _ had  _ to be put down. He’d killed her so many times. He’d killed his own wife. It had to be done. But Eileen… what had Eileen done, besides run down to the Tomb to get rid of Henryk before Mia tried to fight him again?

Henryk couldn’t be blamed, she thought. The man had gone mad; Mia still hasn’t lost her mind (presumably). She should’ve been smarter. And not only that: Henyrk had gone mad after losing Gascoigne.  _ Mia  _ had killed Gascoigne.

And s _ he  _ had killed Eileen.

The shriek of pain, of loss, that she lets out, finally makes the Doll run towards her, either alarmed or curious by the display. Mia doesn’t care: she wishes she could die, for real this time, just disappear for once and for all, but she’s trapped, and the reality of how  _ trapped _ she actually feels hits her for the first time since this all began. She cries and cries and cries, until she throws up on the ground, and then cries some more.

The Hunter keeps screaming and wailing until she can’t take it anymore. She’s exhausted: at some point, the Plain Doll has pulled her back to the steps that lead towards the workshop, helping her sit down and sitting next to her. Mia can’t remember when she took it, but the Doll’s holding her hand in between hers, and the contact grounds her. The Doll’s hands are never truly warm like a human’s, there’s no blood flowing through her fingers to warm her up from the inside, so the only warmth they give off is the one they’ve gotten from holding her hand. But it’s fine, for now: Mia’s never liked being touched by people, anyway, and she doesn’t think she could take it right now.

Slowly, she starts to calm down: the sobs that wracked her spine turn into whimpers, and those, into shaky, childlike sniffles. She’s completely drained after the outburst, and feels lighter: but the heavy stone of Eileen’s death still weighs in her chest. Her mind feels like a town wrecked by a tidal wave. She thinks the pain will probably remain there forever. Whatever she rebuilds, it’ll have to be built around it.

Letting out a shaky sigh, she wipes her eyes and her face with her sleeve. 

“Good Hunter” the Plain Doll says softly. She finally turns to face her and finds her pale eyes fixed in hers. The Doll shows little expression, and that in itself is a relief, because Mia could not take anyone’s pity at this time. She doesn’t deserve it, for starters. She can see Messengers at their feet, looking up at them with obvious concern in their eyeless faces, clinging to the hem of the Plain Doll’s dress. “Do you feel better?”

Mia hesitates.

“A bit” she croaks, her throat still sore from her screaming. Reluctantly, she pulls her hand out of the Doll’s grasp. “Thank you.”

“May I ask what happened?”

Hawke feels a lump in her throat. Slowly, she shakes her head. 

She doesn’t want to say it out loud. The Doll doesn’t insist.

“Can I help you somehow, good Hunter?” she does ask.

Mia hesitates.

“Could I have some tea, please?” she says after a moment. The Plain Doll nods and gets up to walk up the stairs.

“You mentioned other Hunters have come here before, didn’t you?” the Hunter dares to ask just then. Her companion stops and turns to look at her, tilting her head.

“Yes” she says. “A long time ago.”

“Where do you think they go?” Hawke leans back on the steps to look at the Doll too. “When…” She doesn’t want to mention  _ death _ . It’s not like it has meaning for the Doll, or for herself anyway. And it’s still too soon. “... When they don’t come back, I mean.”

The Doll blinks. The corner of her lips curve into something that looks, maybe, like a smile, if you look at it hard enough. For a moment, her inexpressive porcelain face shows something like affection, and it makes the Hunter’s heart seize.

“To a better place” she says, and goes into the workshop.


	5. Tangles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Hunter examines the Doll’s white hair and frowns.
> 
> “You have a knot” she observes. “Your hair is tangled.” 
> 
> “Oh” the Plain Doll says, looking perplexed. “What should I do?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A tiny little fluffy thing I wanted to get off my chest because the Doll is baby and I want to care for her always

“Welcome, Good Hunter.”

Hawke gives the Doll a small nod and a wave as she walks up he steps leading towards the workshop, and doesn’t notice anything odd until she catches a movement from the corner of her eye. Stopping halfway, she turns around to find the Doll touching her headdress, tilting her head in what seems to be confusion, or discomfort.

The Hunter’s only eyebrow cocks up.

“Everything alright?”

Her companion turns to give her a slightly puzzled look.

“Forgive me, Good Hunter” she says. “There seems to be… something on my hair.”

Mia blinks, curious. She props her Hunter’s axe against the wall (she had intended to do some maintenance of it, but of course, she forgets about it almost immediately the minute there’s a distraction) before walking back down towards the Doll, who guesses her intentions and immediately leans forward a little bit; the height difference between them is very large, and she doesn’t mind bending at the waist to allow the Hunter to undo the bow that holds her velvet bonnet in place. The Hunter examines the Doll’s white hair and frowns.

“You have a knot” she observes. “Your hair is tangled.” 

“Oh” the Plain Doll says, looking perplexed. “What should I do?”

“Sit down, for starters” the Hunter replies. Taking off her hat and her coat and tossing them on the stairs, she starts going through her pockets while the Doll obediently sits down on the stone steps and watches her. 

She doesn’t find what she’s looking for, and the Doll sees her run up into the workshop: from inside comes a big ruckus, noise of cabinets and drawers being opened without any care and things being moved around, precarious towers of books toppling over, but she stays still. Mia Hawke used to be very careful, when she first got to the Hunter’s Dream, to keep things orderly. It took her a while to realize that no matter what she did in there, the next time she came back they’d be right back to the way they were before. Sometimes the Doll walks in on her just straight up kicking and throwing around piles of books and even hacking them with the axe or ripping the pages out by handfuls, when she’s had a bad time in the waking world: she just closes the doors to make sure an ill-aimed book doesn’t fly out of one of them and hits Gehrman square in the head like it’s happened more than once, and waits patiently until she’s done to put the kettle to make tea.

Finally, Hawke comes back with what she was looking for: a comb and a small silver hairbrush. She sits down too, a few steps above the doll to be able to reach her head without problem, and gets to work, undoing the simple bun her hair is gathered in. The Doll doesn’t protest. She sits still as a statue as her Hunter dutifully combs her hair, careful not to break the strands as she undoes the tangle. It’s a long process, but neither of them mind. Incredibly, the Hunter finds herself enjoying it. The Doll’s hair is fine and soft, feeling almost certainly natural. But it’s also white, like the flowers that grow around the shop. What kind of human could have hair like this? The Doll doesn’t protest, even when she accidentally pulls her hair a bit too hard, but Mia still apologizes.

After a long time, the Hunter manages to get rid of the tangle, but rather than stop, she picks up the hairbrush, and starts brushing the Doll’s white hair, finding satisfaction the ease with which the bristles slide through the silken strands. By then, a small group of Messengers has popped up next to them, and watches the process as if it was the most interesting thing in the universe: rather than moan and flail as they usually do, they remain quiet and still, except for the way their heads move up and down, following the movements of the brush, fascinated.

It’s not the first time she’s done something like this with the Doll. Whenever she finds new attire in the waking world, she “models” it for the Doll, asks her her opinion (the Doll always has to take it in, to cut off the hems, to adjust it to her size anyway). Of course, the Plain Doll always thinks she looks beautiful, so it doesn’t mean much, but it’s fun regardless. The Hunter lets her try on her top hat, and the Doll teaches her to weave flower crowns (and Mia  _ really  _ sucks at it). The Doll doesn’t eat or drink, but sits with her while she has a cup of tea. They rarely see Gehrman, which Mia doesn’t really mind, because she doesn’t like a lot the old Hunter, so she has the Plain Doll all to herself most of the time. The small, child-like joys the Doll provides in the dream are probably the only thing that keeps her from going absolutely insane.

The Doll hears a small huff, but doesn’t turn around.

“Is something the matter, Good Hunter?”

Mia takes a moment to answer.

“Just thinking” she says quietly, in a tone the Doll doesn’t hear often, much softer than her usual, dry responses. “It’s been a while since I brushed a doll’s hair.” She thinks it’s been more than a while: her mind retains a vague image of a faceless little girl talking to a doll that sits on her lap as she brushes brown curls in a dimly lit room, but it’s impossible to know whether it’s real or fabricated.

“I’m sorry for bothering you with this, Good Hunter” The Doll says. “I am very grateful for your help.”

“It’s no problem” the Hunter replies. “It’s fun.” After a moment of hesitation, she asks: “Can I braid it? It’ll keep it from getting tangled again.” She doesn’t know if the braid will remain. After all, things tend to reset here in the dream, but she wants to extend the moment as long as possible.

“As you desire, Good Hunter.”

Hawke parts the hair carefully and starts braiding: it’s something she’s done on her own hair so many times she barely has to look at what she’s doing, her fingers working on their own while her mind wanders. She tries to remember if she ever braided someone else’s hair, and is sure she must’ve done it at some point. She remembers the back of a head, the texture of the hair and its weight in her hands. But who? A sister? A mother? A lover? The person never turns around. The edges of the memory are so fuzzy, it feels like looking into an old mirror that has lost its luster. It has been like this since that first blood transfusion she received upon arriving to Yharnam, and it doesn’t seem to be getting better. Like dreams, the more she tries to force it the harder it is to remember.

So she gives up, and dedicates herself to finishing up the braid, securing the end of it with a ribbon and pinning it back into a bun.

“All done” she announces. The Doll reaches up to touch the back of her head gently.

“Thank you very much, Good Hunter” she says, turning to look at her. “How do I look?”

The Hunter has to smile. She knows the Doll, unlike most people, doesn’t mind it. It’s liberating to be able to smile.

“Lovely” she assures. She helps her secure her bonnet over her hair, tying up the velvet ribbon into the neatest bow she can, makes her turn her head to right and left to make sure everything is in place, and then nods, satisfied. “Perfect.”

“Thank you, Good Hunter.”

After a moment, Mia sighs and gets up, and the Doll does the same.

“I should get to work” the Hunter says, and the Doll nods. She goes to pick up her axe, and then stops. “Doesn’t Gehrman help you with this?”

The Plain Doll seems surprised at the question.

“He used to, at first… but he hasn’t in a long time” she replies. Mia frowns a little bit.

“Would you like me to brush your hair again, when I come back?” she asks after a moment. The Doll blinks.

“Oh! I… I wouldn’t want to impose on you, Good Hunter.” The Hunter knows she means it: the Doll is so selfless, that she reminds her of the Messengers, who consider even the smallest form of acknowledgement a grand gift, although she isn’t as expressive as they are. They way she reacts to small acts of kindness, as if she’d never expected to deserve them, moves Mia. 

“I am offering” she says. “You can’t have long hair without brushing it often.”

The Plain Doll seems a bit puzzled, but after a moment, she nods.

“In that case, I accept” she says softly. “You are very kind, Good Hunter.”

“Neh” Mia replies, picking up the Hunter’s Axe and testing the edge with her thumb. “It’ll be good to have something to look forward to.” 

The Doll doesn’t seem to know what to make of those words, so she simply gives her another small nod. The Hunter stares at her for a moment in silence, before turning around and going up the stairs.

She slings the axe over her shoulder and walks into the workshop.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He doesn’t hear The Hunter come up the ladder, and only realizes he has company when they’ve already reached the top of his tower, and the clink of their weapons announces their presence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I finally, FINALLY killed the fucking Blood-Starved Beast and found the Abandoned Workshop!! and then I bullied a friend of mine into farming for me and taking me through the Hypogean Gaol to see Paarl and meet Djura. I wrote this like, WEEKS before it happened in game so I'm very excited about finally posting it. Djura's my favorite character so far. He's my dad. Boogiewoogiewoogie

He doesn’t hear The Hunter come up the ladder, and only realizes he has company when they’ve already reached the top of his tower, and the clink of their weapons announces their presence.

Immediately, Djura turns around, aiming his blunderbuss at the intruder, who steps backwards, almost tripping, startled by the speed which with he moves. The sight pleases the retired hunter: as old as he is, he’s still in good shape.

“One more step and I’ll blow your brains out” he warns, and to his surprise, the stranger obeys. They stand still as a statue, staring at him, and as far as Djura can tell, they don’t even seem to be breathing. Djura’s finger twitches on the trigger, but he doesn’t pull it just yet, because it’s been a while since anyone actually listened to his instructions. The Hunter keeps their head low, the brim of their hat partially covering their face. He recognizes them anyway, because he’s killed them a couple of times before.

The Hunter is a very short person, Djura judges: he calculates the top of their head hardly reaches his chin, and Djura isn’t a very tall man himself. But he’s also seen them handle the axe and the Kirkhammer with relative ease, so he doesn’t lower the blunderbuss.

“Your weapons. Now” he orders. He catches a glimpse of silver under the brim of their hat, as the Hunter obeys, placing the axe and the gun on the floor. They even nudge them with their foot and the weapons slide towards him.

Djura walks towards the newcomer, gun still poised, and this time the Hunter doesn’t flinch, even as he uses the barrel to tip their hat back to look at their face. He narrows his eyes as he examines the Hunter’s face, trying to confirm what he suspects. After a moment’s hesitation, he lowers his gun and grabs them by the chin with his free hand for a closer look. The Hunter’s eye follow the tip of his Stake Driver with evident concern as it moves past their head. The thick black eyebrow and the dark circle under their only eye-quicksilver gray, just like his, a color that he’s never seen in a Yharnamite-, as well as the sunken cheeks, give the Hunter’s face a strange, androgynous sharpness. Using his thumb to roughly wipe soot from their cheek, it finally becomes very evident as they let out a grunt of discomfort at being touched.

“You’re a girl” he observes. “A woman.”

She doesn’t say anything.

The retired hunter had suspected it for a while, but it still surprises him to realize that the face staring back at him is unmistakably feminine. She’s a young woman-well, young for  _ him _ , maybe in her 30s. If he hadn’t been himself, he would’ve probably assumed she was younger, because she’s built like a particularly malnourished teenager with no visible curves, with narrow shoulders and hips. But a streak of white shines in the blackness of her hair and there’s an undeniable weight of years and exhaustion accumulated at the corner of her eye and her mouth. The scar itself speaks volumes: it happened a while ago. He can tell because she doesn’t hesitates when she fights, and it’s clear she’s used to fighting with the disadvantage.

She’s not the first female hunter he’s seen, but she’s certainly the  _ smallest _ one. But despite her size, she handles the heavy Hunter’s Axe with the practiced ease of someone who has the muscles of a fighter. And the penetrating gray gaze of her eye says she’s used to staring down people (things?) much more intimidating than Djura, that she’s not afraid of fighting, regardless of the outcome.

The edge of her axe is clean though. Djura walks around her, judging her. There’s a large rip on the shoulder of her coat, she’s covered in soot, but she doesn’t seem to have hurt any beasts on the way to his tower. After a minute, he decides that for now the Hunter doesn’t pose any significant threat to him, and stands in front of her again, sheathing his blunderbuss at last, counting on the Stake Driver attached to his arm being intimidating enough to keep her in check. She doesn’t move, but when he relaxes, she seems to go a bit less stiff, too.

"Well, well” he says, placing his hand on his hip. “How did you get in here?”

The Hunter stares at him with that unsettling, pale gray eye of hers, and then shrugs. A tough one, Djura thinks. She’s not the first quiet Hunter that’s tumbled into Old Yharnam. Djura scratches his chin pensively.

“Ah, it's no matter” he says after a minute, sighing tiredly. Turning away from the Hunter, he returns to his post next to the gatling gun. He hears her hesitate for a second, and then walk after him: he half expects her to immediately pick up her weapons, but she doesn’t. She just stands next to him, staring down at Old Yharnam, apparently unsure of what to do now that he has chosen not to fight her. Djura resists the need to stare at her questioningly. "What brings you to Old Yharnam?” he asks. 

The woman hesitates.

“Paleblood” she says, her voice coarse, as if she hadn’t used it in a while. Djura looks down at her, and she looks up at him. She’s very small, he notices, even smaller than he’d calculated, and built like a bundle of twigs. It’s not often that the retired hunter gets to feel big. “I’m looking for Paleblood.” They stare at each other in silence.

“Have you tried the Cathedral?” Djura says dryly. The woman lowers her gaze.

“Nothing yet.”

“Can’t say I know anything of it.”

“Mm. Thought as much.”

Silence again. Now that the initial shock of their first meeting is past, Djura realizes, startled, that he can  _ tell _ she is upset. It’s a feeling of sadness so heavy that it hangs around her like a cloud, and he can feel it like he can feel the scent of the moon that clings to her. He’s always been very sensitive to other people’s moods and feelings, like cats are to the changes in the air that predict storms. He doesn’t know if her grief has anything to do with him not knowing about Paleblood, or something else, but it’s  _ deep _ and it’s shocking in its intensity. He wonders where she came from: he didn’t see her enter Old Yharnam to the closed off church she usually accesses through.

Finally, deciding he’s  _ very _ uncomfortable with this, he clears his throat.

“Well. I've no interest in matters further up, but you must not disturb this place” he says firmly. Again, they look at the other. "The beasts do not venture above, and mean no harm to anyone” he explains to the woman, who simply stares back. There’s something like curiosity deep in her pupil, but Djura doesn’t feel like explaining, and she doesn’t ask for an explanation. "If you still insist on hunting them, then I  _ will _ hunt you first. You understand me?"

She doesn’t seem intimidated anymore, which almost disappoints him, but also, somehow, amuses him slightly: the one Hunter that doesn’t flinch at his threat is this little thing that looks like she’s made of air. He’s had his share of men who just straight up book it out of the city the minute he tells them to leave, too scared to be again on the bad end of his chain gun, or that just attack him, thinking they can best him by trying to surprise him. But this one just nods. 

More silence. They remain quiet for what seems like an eternity. The former hunter doesn’t mind silence anymore: he’s had lots of it since he decided to lock himself up in Old Yharnam. For a while, all they hear is the eerie screeches and howls of beasts in the distance, crackling of fires, cawing of crows. But she doesn’t seem like she wants to leave, and Djura wonders. That unbearable feeling of sadness she carries over her shoulders like a blanket is impossible to ignore.

This time, she speaks first, to his surprise.

“Can I stay here?” she asks, after about fifteen minutes of perfect mutism, making Djura blink and look down at her in surprise.

“What?” he blurts. The young woman looks up at him almost shyly.

“Only for a little while” she adds. “I just...” She goes silent again, and Djura can tell she’s not sure of what she’s saying. Shocked, he stares at her for a minute. “I promise I won’t bother you. I don’t want to go back down yet.” When he doesn’t reply, she also adds: “Please.”

Djura slips a hand under his hat to scratch his head, completely dumbfounded. Not even the most bloodthirsty hunters walk into Old Yharnam with the intention of  _ staying _ . He only knows one person who’s insane enough to stay in the city willingly besides himself, and it’s Neil, the other Hunter that keeps watch below.

“Don’t you have a lamp to go back to?” he asks. She shrugs. The way her eye seems to glaze over says everything Djura needs to know, and he wants to cuss, because somehow,  _ somehow _ , this weasel-faced, one-eyed woman he’d mistook for a vicious teenage boy at first has managed to make him feel  _ sorry _ for her.

He thought he’d lost the ability to feel sympathy for hunters a long time ago-but he can tell this one is  _ exhausted _ . Whatever happened outside-she doesn’t feel capable of returning to the syrupy, artificial calm of the Dream. He knows the feeling because he’s  _ felt it _ in the flesh. Curse his empathy: he’s always been like this, and it’s always given him trouble. 

“What’s your name, Hunter?” he asks.

“Mia” she says. “Mia Hawke.”

Djura considers offering his hand to shake, but she makes it very clear that she doesn’t want that by crossing her arms over her chest immediately.

“I’m Djura” he replies dryly.

They both turn to face the burning city, and the wind picks up, throwing ashes and the stench of charred fur and flesh against their faces, forcing Hawke to squint. The scar pulls at the left side of her face in a way that seems painful: Djura sees the silver lines that talk of crude stitches right where the other eye would have been. Whoever fixed her up did it in a hurry, probably not counting on her recovery. It’s very different from the burn scar that melted his own eyeball and fused his eyelids shut permanently: he remembers how Viola slaved to make sure the wound didn’t get infected, cursing the summer that made flies gather around the exposed flesh like it was ripe fruit, how she made him bite a piece of wood wrapped in a rag to keep him from screaming when she applied her remedies, because Djura refused to go to the clinic or take blood and sedatives were running scarce. 

He doesn’t want to be caught staring, so he leans on the gatling gun mounted on the ledge and tips his hat back just enough to scratch his head again (but not enough to let her see his receding hairline: even old wolves have their pride).

“Fine, then, miss Hawke” he says after a moment. “You can stay. Just for a little bit.”

A beast shrieks in the distance, a sound between a howl and a lament, like a woman being burned, amplified by the narrow streets, raising like another column of smoke among the buildings.

“It’ll be good to have another eye, for a while.”

  
  
  



	7. A Better Friend

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She can hear him coughing as soon as she materializes next to the lamp in Central Yharnam.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I honestly hadn't planned to come back and keep updating this bc my self-esteem is shit but I just. Keep writing and I'm not doing anything with it so I might as well.  
Anyway I wrote this the day before I defeated Amelia after months of struggling against her because I was having thoughts about Gilbert. As usual, nobody beta reads my stuff and I do my own editing but if at this point you still have expectations that's on you fam

She can hear him coughing as soon as she materializes next to the lamp in Central Yharnam, and frowns at the sound, because it’s worse than ever.

“You’re gonna cough out a lung, Gilbert” she observes, walking toward the window. The man on the other side breathes in with a wheeze, and lets out a sound that’s halfway between a laugh and a cough. The Hunter leans against the bars.

“I wish. Maybe then my chest would stop hurting” he says humorously. “How are you doing?”

“Do you really have time to worry about  _ me _ ?” she grumbles. Gilbert chuckles weakly.

“I will  _ always  _ worry about you, miss Piss-And-Vinegar.”

The moniker makes her ears turn pink, but for once, she doesn’t argue.

Mia hears the creak of Gilbert’s wheelchair as he gets closer to the window to open it, and what she sees then makes her heart drop.

It’s been a while since she first saw his face, now. She remembers that the first time it almost felt  _ wrong  _ to look at him, after she’d grown so used to only hearing his voice; something about finally having a face to associate with it was strange to her, specially because Gilbert was  _ way _ younger than she’d assumed by the way he spoke. He has prematurely aged due to the prolonged suffering, his auburn hair streaked with silver, like hers, but the Hunter could tell he could only be in his late thirties, only a few years older than herself. She remembers being surprised when she first saw him and realized that not too long ago Gilbert had been a handsome man.

“What the-” she blurts, unable to help herself. “Gilbert, you...”

The man looks  _ terrible  _ now, his skin yellow and waxy and his cheeks sunken, lips chapped and stained with blood, and he urgently needs a good shave, but that’s not what catches her attention.

His eyes are bandaged, and the sight is shocking, even though it  _ shouldn’t _ be. Mia had noticed a while ago the way his pupils seemed to be decaying and sinking, collapsing onto themselves, like the ones of the blood crazed Hunters of Yharnam. His eyes were a warm, bright green, she remembers, but now she can’t see them and that makes cold bloom behind her breastbone. She knew it was inevitable, but it still shakes her.

“Yeah” he says, immediately catching on what upset her. “My eyes are nearly gone, I’m afraid.” He coughs a little bit again. “It’s alright, though. At least  _ they  _ don’t hurt anymore.”

Mia grits her teeth and curses herself for being so obvious. It feels like a physical blow, the realization that Gilbert, the first person in Yharnam to ever show her kindness, might be gone before the night ends, without her being able to help him. She feels like she’s back at the Tomb of Oedon, watching Henryk shoot Eileen. A mix of fear and powerless anger grips at her heart: she doesn’t want him to die. It’s  _ unfair _ that he’s dying, that she can’t do anything about it. She almost covers her mouth with her hand, but instead she settles for placing it against her throat, swallowing around the thick lump of anguish she can feel forming in it. The man smiles at her sadly.

“Are you still using the flamesprayer?” he asks then, before she can think of anything to say to break the thick silence that lingers. The question surprises her slightly.

“I… yeah. A lot, actually” she replies. Automatically, her right hand goes to touch the weapon that hangs at the back of her belt. The lump gets painfully large and hard as she remembers how she used the flamesprayer against the Blood-Starved Beast, the Witch of Hemwick. If it hadn’t been for his gift, she probably would have never been able to defeat them. She wants to tell him about it, but the words get stuck in her chest. “It’s… it’s been incredibly useful. Thank you, Gilbert.”

The man behind the window smiles again-that sad, tired smile-, and nods slowly.

“You don’t need to be so sad, you know?” he says, surprising her again-is her distress so evident? Mia tries to compose herself, even though she doesn’t feel anywhere near composed. If anything, the sight of Gilbert with his eyes bandaged seems to have released a heavy and sudden storm of thoughts she believed she’d locked away, and she feels more distraught with every second.

“Gilbert-”

“I have known it for a while, Hawke” he interrupts her gently. His voice is unusually gentle when he adds: “I have known for a while that I would never leave Yharnam. This is fine. Really.”

She grits her teeth, and her hands wrap around the metallic bars of his window, squeezing until her fingers hurt. She’s feeling so many things, in fact, that she registers them as physical pain, as a shortness of brain and a sharpness of icy needles inside her ribcage.

Mia sighs quietly, shakily, closes her eye, and presses her forehead against the bars.

“Are you  _ sure _ you don’t want me to take you to the Chapel? Or to the clinic?” she asks. It’s a question she’s asked countless times, almost since the first time they met, and she knows the answer before he even speaks up, but she refuses to give up.

“I don’t think I’d get too far in my state, Hawke” Gilbert replies.

“I could carry you.”

“You’re a  _ stick _ .”

“Try me, old man.”

It’s just another repetition of the same teasing, well intentioned argument they’ve had a thousand times since they met, something that, if things had been different, could have passed for flirting, although Mia doubts a guy like Gilbert would’ve wasted his time flirting with  _ her _ \- but this time, instead of comforting her, the dialogue makes the Hunter feel more distraught than ever.

She could just pull the bars open at this point. She knows she has the strength and her axe could slice through them like butter: Gilbert is taller than her, but he’s so emaciated and thin from the illness that she could carry him on her back without problem. The urge to do that, to just steal Gilbert from his locked home and take him to Cathedral Ward, to Iosefka’s clinic, to Old Yharnam,  _ anywhere _ safe, is so strong, that she feels her hands shaking around the bars as she fights back the impulse to pull them apart. She squeezes her only eye shut and grits her teeth until she hears them squeak in protest.

“There is something I would like to ask of you, though, Hawke.”

Mia’s eye snaps open.

“Y-yes?” she blurts out. “Ask away. Anything you want.” It almost embarrasses her to speak like that, so desperately, but Gilbert gives her a small smile, almost sheepish.

“Would you let me look at you?” he asks, making her blink in surprise. “Just one last time. Before… before I can’t see anymore.”

His words cause her throat to tighten almost painfully. She swallows hard and blinks fast to steady herself before nodding.

“I… yes. Of course.”

Gilbert smiles again, and as he clumsily removes the bandages from his face, she takes off her hat, nervously tucking a lock of hair behind her ear, and steps closer to the light. She doesn’t know why she’s so nervous: it’s not like he hasn’t seen her before. She distinctly remembers his reaction the first time he did ( _ you have been in the war, haven’t you? _ )... and his apology.

And yet, when Gilbert finally is free of the bandages and leans forward, squinting to look at her, she blushes. It’s difficult to look at his face when it’s so evident he’s in so much pain, but she keeps her eye on his, and Gilbert smiles.

“Ah… yes. Yes, good” he says, apparently satisfied as he makes out her features. “Pretty as always, Miss Piss-And-Vinegar.” The Hunter cringes.

“Shut up” she grumbles, making him chuckle. She turns her hat in her hands, looking down, unable to stand any longer the affectionate look in the decayed pupils of his eyes. “I’m sorry.”

He seems surprised.

“Whatever for?”

Mia shrugs.

“You know… for not being able to offer something nicer to look at, considering it’s your last time” the bluntness of her own words almost makes her wince again, but Gilbert only laughs again, warmly-and even through the coughing it’s incredible to hear it, because it seems to belong in a much younger, healthier body.

_ This is so unfair _ , she thinks, her hands gripping the brim of her hat convulsively. So  _ cruel _ .

“I couldn’t ask for a better view, Hawke” he assures. Mia raises her eye again to look at him.

“I could’ve introduced you to  _ actual  _ beautiful women, you know?”

“But not to a better friend.”

That is  _ too  _ much. Simultaneously, she feels her face burn and her eye itch with the prickle sudden tears, and she has to look away once more to blink them away, furious at how emotional she is being, embarrassed of her own weakness.

“Can I ask you a question?” Gilbert says after a moment.

“Sure” she croaks.

“What color are your eyes…?” Mia clears her throat and forces herself to face him again.

“Um… gray, I believe” she mumbles. “At least they were the last time I checked.”

“Ah… yes” Gilbert nods. “I could never tell. They always look different, you know?”

“Uh-huh” she replies, unsure of what to say. Her friend smiles.

“Either way, they are beautiful” he says, and she can tell he’s sincere.

She can’t stand this. It’s too many emotions. The only person who’s been this straightforward about feelings with her is probably Djura, because after losing Eileen she’s even attempted to keep the Chapel Dweller at an arm’s length despite his enthusiastic, eager friendliness. 

But she forces herself to act normal, nonetheless.

“Well then. You should’ve seen me when I had the two of them” she says, to dissolve the tension a little bit, and the small joke makes Gilbert laugh-a laugh that inevitably turns into that terrible, dry, painful cough that makes his chest almost collapse on itself and forces him to pat around him for a handkerchief to hold to his lips. Even then, she can see dark rust colored stains around his mouth: he’s not going to last much longer. If he’s  _ very _ lucky, he might still be in good enough shape to talk to her again, when she comes back from another couple of rounds with the Vicar in the Cathedral.

_ It’s not fair _ , she thinks.  _ This is not fucking fair. _

She doesn’t say anything. The Hunter waits, her hand resting against the window frame, until the coughing recedes enough for him to suck in a few shaky breaths.

“I’m… I’m sorry, Hawke” Gilbert wheezes after a few minutes of coughing. “I think… I think I need to… lay down a little bit.” He places his hand over hers (all skin and bone, but surprisingly warm, much larger than hers), and smiles weakly again. It’s the first time they’ve ever touched, she realizes. Probably the last one, too. His eyes are on her face, but she can tell he’s not looking at it anymore. The white of his eyes is bloodshot and sickly yellow and his pupils are completely gone at this point, pools of blackness with no light in them. “I will talk to you later, surely?”

_ You won’t _ , she thinks.  _ When I come back, you won’t be okay enough to talk, you absolute fucking fool. That is if you’re still alive then. Why are you like this? _

“Yeah” she blurts out, her voice stiff and slightly higher pitched than usual. “Surely.” As gently as she can, she slips her hand from under Gilbert’s, immediately missing its warm weight, and puts her hat back on her head. “I… I will be back soon, okay?”

Her friend has brought his handkerchief to his mouth again and is coughing so hard he seems to be turning inside out, but he gives her a nod, and bravely attempts to smile again.

“Be safe” he manages to croak in between fits of coughing, and Mia decides she can’t stay any longer.

She steps away from the warm circle of light of Gilbert’s lamp, from the ragged, painful sounds of his coughing, and all but runs to kneel next to the lamp, allowing it to drag her into the almost absolute, comforting, artificial silence of the Hunter’s Dream. 


	8. Comfort Food

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s almost easy to believe that the world outside can be gentle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another drabble I started a while ago that is more wishful thinking than anything else. I just really REALLY love Djura, he's become sort of a comfort character for me. I think you can smell my daddy issues through the screen at this point lmao 
> 
> I've seen a lot of ppl giving different names to Djura's Ally so I just went and gave him one of my own just because nobody can stop me

“Eat.”

The Hunter is suddenly startled by the apparition of a bowl right under her nose. Blinking in surprise, she puts down the monocular (she’s been watching the beasts from the safety of Djura’s tower and it’s  _ fascinating _ ; apparently, it’s mating season in Old Yharnam) and takes the bowl, looking down at the contents with curiosity. Some sort of stew, apparently: it doesn’t precisely look appetizing. It looks like greyish brown sludge with blobs of unidentified matter floating in it. She pokes around critically with the spoon that Djura shoved in there.

“Djura…” she starts to say, but the old man sits next to her, with his own bowl in hand and doesn’t look at her. He’s taken the habit of sitting to her right, so she can see him and doesn’t elbow him constantly, which she appreciates.

“Eat” he repeats, and when she still stares, he finally turns to frown at her. “What?”

“You do know I don’t  _ need _ to eat, right?” she says after a moment. “I can just…”

“... Go back to the Hunter’s Dream?” Djura finishes her sentence for her, before returning his attention to his food. “Oh, I know. That’s precisely why I’m telling you to eat something.” He takes a spoonful and speaks through it, but Mia doesn’t mind. At some point, like a decade ago, manners stopped mattering to her. “You rely too much on it. If you do that, you’ll have trouble adapting when you don’t dream anymore. Trust me. I know it from experience.”

Hawke knows he’s telling the truth-and she doesn’t want to think about the future, if there is one, in which she will be able to finally quit the Dream-so she finally turns to look at her bowl and stirs it again with her spoon.

“Is it really alright....?”

“Neil made an extra portion for you” Djura speaks, before she can finish asking, and when she cocks her eyebrow at him, he gives her a glance and a half smirk. “What? Shocked to realize that he’s actually a good man?” She presses her lips and frowns a bit, making him chuckle.

The fact that she and Neil, the other hunter that remains in Old Yharnam, don’t get along is no secret to Djura. It started as pure hostility (Mia  _ was  _ an intruder in Old Yharnam, and Neil  _ had _ tried to kill her more than once), and it quickly evolved into them competing for Djura’s attention, although none of them are willing to admit it. Neil is younger than Djura, maybe like a decade or so, and a good twenty years older than Mia, but bickers with her as if they were both twelve. Still, Neil takes care of her automatically and apparently without noticing, the same way Djura does: he insists on walking her back to the entrance of Old Yharnam when she needs to return to the lamp, and nags her about leaning too far off the edge of the tower when it’s windy, like a mother. It never stops shocking her: it seems to be a Powder Keg tradition to take care of anyone younger than you, and the two lonely old men follow it religiously.

Hawke sighs and finally takes a spoonful to bring it closer to her face, squinting slightly.

“What’s this?” she asks, noticing a chunk of something that looks like meat.

Djura gives her a somber look.

“ _ Hunter _ ” he replies, in his lowest and creepiest voice, and when she just stares blankly, he laughs. “Don’t worry about it. We keep dried meat and all we need here.” He takes another spoonful of stew. “Eat before it gets cold.”

Taking a deep breath for courage, she finally takes a bite: she’s never been a picky eater, even if she’s never cared a lot for food either, but the taste surprises her pleasantly. Neil’s stew is heavy and greasy, and it reminds her vaguely of something she might have eaten back when she was still a soldier surrounded by other soldiers who didn’t really know how to cook. The meat is tough and leathery, but savory. It’s  _ definitely _ got much more pepper in it than it needs to have, but it’s good and warm and seasoned with dried herbs and it’s surprisingly comforting. Before she even realizes, she’s sipping the broth directly from the bowl, scraping the bottom with her spoon to get everything she can, and Djura looks pleased.

“That a girl” he says, proudly, and she can feel her ears heat up a little bit in embarrassment at being addressed in such a way: both Djura and Neil seem to constantly forget that she is actually in her thirties, and sometimes talk to her as if she were their teenage son. It makes her wonder if they haven’t started to lose their marbles a little bit due to the loneliness, like everyone else in Yharnam. But right now she’s too busy to really care about that, licking her spoon and considering licking the bowl too. “Put some meat on those bones. You certainly seem to need it.”

Finally, licking her lips and wiping her mouth with her sleeve, she puts her empty bowl and spoon aside, next to her on the ledge where they sit. When Djura hands her his own bowl, which still has some stew left in it, she accepts it without hesitation. 

“You know I’m not gonna grow any bigger, right?” she says as she digs in, making Djura laugh. 

“Oh you will. You’ll see how easy that gets after you turn forty” he jokes, patting his belly. The corner of his remaining eye crinkles with deep laugh lines. He’s in a good mood, probably because of the food. Mia decides she likes it; usually, he tries really hard to act serious and intimidating, but it doesn’t suit him. He’s clearly social and cheerful by nature, like the Oedon Chapel Dweller. 

It’s odd how attached she’s grown to Djura, considering that he used to shoot her full of holes on sight. When she crawled out of the terrifying Hypogean Gaol, after barely escaping the Dark Beast that guarded the exit, she’d only come to him because she couldn’t stand being alone another second. Death at the hands of another human being was preferable than being alone with the memories of Yahar’gul. The Hunter had sworn she wouldn’t hurt him without need, but also that she couldn’t forgive him for killing her so many times, in other words, she was ready for the worst. And now there she is: sharing a meal with him, hearing him laugh, feeling safe and at home-almost as safe and at home as she feels at the Hunter’s Dream, and in the Oedon Chapel. When she realized she had started to become fond of Djura, she’d considered stopping her visits, because the loss of Eileen was still an open wound. But the truth was she didn’t  _ want _ to stop visiting. So she keeps coming back.

The Hunter doesn’t remember most of her life before Yharnam. The memories of everything that happened right before leaving the military are so fuzzy it’s hard to tell if they’re even real memories, or just fragments of images seen in books and heard in stories. She can’t tell if she’s ever had a father, but Djura seems to have filled that void inside her head, like Eileen filled the mother shaped hole in her heart once. It’s confusing, funny, terrifying and comforting, all at the same time. Djura has settled comfortably into the role, because it’s his nature to take care of others: Mia noticed very early that the man’s never happier than when he can do things for someone else, and she thinks with a tinge of sadness that she can’t think of a person less fit to be a Hunter than him. She can tell he’s tired. The loneliness weighs him down.

She finally finishes his bowl too, and this time she doesn’t bother holding back the urge to lick it clean: who’s gonna judge her, after all? the beasts? It’s been a long time since she had a hot meal, and she tells herself that this time she might even swallow her pride and thank Neil for making it. Djura was right: she feels better with real food in her stomach. 

“You look better now” he observes. “You even got some color on your face.” The affectionate tone in his voice makes her ears turn red again. Djura and her are similar in a lot of things, but she still struggles with how open he is about his feelings, particularly the fatherly fondness he feels towards her. It’s very different from the quiet, rough way Eileen and her had to show they cared for each other, with small gestures and little words, always keeping the other at an arm’s length-or at least trying to. 

“Listen, if you think I’m ugly you can just say it” she says, to make him laugh and relieve a bit her discomfort. 

“By the gods. You’re impossible” he chuckles, shaking his head a little bit. “Were you also this bratty with Eileen?”

“Worse, actually.”

Djura laughs again, and she watches him in silence. When Mia told him about Eileen, he’d been very clearly heartbroken: they had been friends, back in the day, long before he ventured into Old Yharnam. She had also ended up talking to him about Gascoigne, and Henryk ( _ talking to him _ didn’t even begin to describe the way she’d broken down: she’d cried so much that her missing eye had started to  _ hurt _ ). Djura had asked her to go back to the lamp, and she’d obeyed, knowing he wanted to be left alone to mourn for a while the people that had been his colleagues back in the day. And when she came back, he had seemed much more open than before, much more determined to take care of her. She suspects this is how Djura deals with his own sadness-by taking care of others. It’s not bad, actually, although she feels like she doesn’t deserve it at all. 

Mia thinks it’s the kind of person she’d like to grow into one day.

Djura takes the empty bowls and puts them aside, and Mia entertains herself by fidgeting with her monocular, watching the way the polished brass catches the dying light. She has so many questions: too many questions. She knows Djura won’t answer them, but still. Whatever pushed him and Neil to Old Yharnam is a secret they won’t share with her. 

She wishes she could speak as Djura does: she wants to tell him things, too, but so far, the only times she’s been able to speak of how she feels is when she’s broke down, too exhausted and guilty and scared to do anything else. She envies that about him, even though she knows it’s a stupid thing to wish for in a world where everyone is ready to kill you at the slightest sign of weakness. But it’s so hard not to think like that when she’s here, and she feels so safe, and there’s warm food in her stomach and her body feels satisfied and content.

It’s almost easy to believe that the world outside can be gentle.

  
  



	9. Next

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eileen stands next to her in silence, and the Hunter, after a long pause, finally croaks:
> 
> “What do I do next?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did warn y'all this wasn't gonna be chronological so have another drabble with Eileen in it. I'd like to write a fight scene at some point but I'm lazy. Damn I'm bad at titles.
> 
> Also mild warning for gore because I got nasty describing a corpse there.

As soon as Gascoigne collapses, with one last, horrifying howl, the Hunter falls back on her butt, her legs finally giving in.

She’s sweating: so much, actually, that she can smell it. Sweat drips from her forehead into her only eye, and there’s hair sticking to her slick skin, but when she wipes it off with her glove (smearing blood and dirt on it), her face feels numb.

The adrenaline that has kept her going for the past hour is wearing off, and with it, the brain fog has started to lift. Mia is now conscious of the fact that her  _ entire _ body  _ hurts _ . Her muscles scream with the deep burn of extreme exhaustion. She’s very aware now that her right ear is bleeding, that her clothes are ripped open at the chest and that the cold of the night bites into her exposed skin. Gascoigne almost tore her in half, driving the pick of his axe through her torso, and if it hadn’t been for the three blood vials she jammed into her thigh she would be dead again. Still, the wounds haven’t closed completely, and it hurts when she breathes. Her left hand is still cramped around her axe and her gaze is fixed on Gascoigne, as if expecting him to get up and attack her again.

But he doesn’t.

He’s dead: perfectly dead, half his face charred and melted from the molotov she smashed against it, his maws open revealing wicked long yellow fangs stained red and a grotesquely long flat tongue. One eye is gone: she hacked it with the axe, and now that the bandages are gone too, she sees the other is still open and has rolled into the back of his head, revealing a sickly yellow, bloodshot sclera. Part of his guts have spilled from the wound on his belly, crushed underneath the bulk of his enormous body. He smells of charred fur and of exposed viscera.

He’s dead.

Father Gascoigne is dead.

The realization hits her like a punch to the gut, knocking the air out of her, and she has to slap a hand over her mouth to contain a pained gasp.

Her eye fills with tears so fast that she barely has time to realize that she’s falling apart. The terrible image of Gascoigne’s mangled corpse breaks into a billion pieces, because

( _ Who… are you? I don’t know your voice, but I know that smell… Are you a hunter? _ )

Father Gascoigne is dead.

The Hunter lurches forward, finally letting go of her Hunter’s Axe to place a hand on her stomach, her insides churning with sudden nausea. She groans and whimpers, squeezing her eye shut. The missing eye on her empty left socket burns. 

( _ My mum wears a big red jeweled brooch. It’s so big and beautiful. You won’t miss it. _ )

Oh, she didn’t miss it. She still has it. It’s still there in the inner pocket of her coat, and she can feel the jewel against her ribcage, right where her heart thumps in an irregular, sickly way, because she took it

( _ Because I stole it) _

from the corpse of Viola, Gascoigne’s wife, the mother of the small child on the window. And she knows her name is Viola because

( _ It plays one of daddy’s favorite songs.  _ )

she saw the name inside the lid of the music box when she opened and played it and Gascoigne

( _ And when daddy forgets us, we play it for him so he remembers. _ )

transformed into that  _ beast _ , and he killed her so many times…

The Hunter vomits on the ground, right next to the corpse, emptying her stomach on the bloodstained cobblestones, and keeps retching even after there’s nothing left and all that comes up her throat is burning, bitter bile.

She feels so many things it’s difficult to decide which feeling is the strongest: disgust, anger, frustration, exhaustion, regret, shame. How is she going to explain this to the little girl on the window? Why didn’t the music box work? Can she return to the Dream? Can she try again? Just one more time. Maybe this time, if she tries harder, he will listen, he will  _ turn back _ , he will  _ remember… _ Mia covers her wet eyes with a shaky hand, holding back the urge to break down.

She doesn’t know how long she stays like that, but she doesn’t even move when she hears steps approaching her. It could be someone coming to kill her. But who the fuck cares? She’ll wake up again, and try again.

Eileen kneels next to her and places a hand on her shoulder-but Mia, too overwhelmed and tense to stand being touched, flinches visibly, and the Crow immediately removes it.

“The lamp” she says quietly.

After a minute, Mia swallows through the lump in her throat, and avoiding Eileen’s gaze, forces her sore body upright, refusing the other Hunter’s help. Her legs are so weak that she can barely stand, but she feels  _ repulsive _ . The mere idea of being touched makes her stomach turn. She manages to wobble her way to the lamp, lighting it up, and watches the messengers materialize around it, raising their hands towards the warm glow. She’s exhausted. Her head hurts. Her heart aches. The new scar on her chest burns.

Eileen stands next to her in silence, and the Hunter, after a long pause, finally croaks:

“What do I do next?”

The Crow hands her something, and Mia hesitates a second before taking it: a key. The key to Oedon’s Chapel… taken from Gascoigne’s body. She presses her lips together.

“You know what I mean” she snaps, unable to help the hostility of her tone. She knows it’s irrational, that Eileen hasn’t done anything and doesn’t deserve it but, if Eileen is offended by her tone, she doesn’t show it. The older woman crosses her arms over her chest.

“He was falling apart” she says, her tone flat. The Hunter finally looks at her, questioning, but Eileen keeps her eyes on the lamp. “He couldn’t have turned back even if he wanted to. It had to be done.”

“You don’t know that” Mia growls.

“You found Viola’s body.” It isn’t a question, but a statement, and Hawke has look away from Eileen, feeling violent.

“Still...”

“It had to be done, Hawke” Eileen says firmly. The two women finally face each other, and for a moment they stare at each other in silence. When Eileen speaks again, her voice is uncharacteristically gentle. “It had to be done.” The Hunter can tell her words are meant to be comforting, but they still make tears sting again at the corner of her eye. Her chest shakes with the effort of containing them.

She looks away to wipe the tears off.

“You haven’t answered my question” she mumbles. “What do I do now?”

Eileen takes her hand. This time, Mia doesn’t push her away, and her fingers automatically curl around Eileen’s gloved palm. She is so warm, so solid, so  _ real _ , that her nerves all seem to go haywire at the same time-it feels like she just placed her hand in the hottest part of a fire, and it burns up to the elbow-but she doesn’t let go. Instead, when Eileen gives her a small squeeze, she squeezes back. 

Eileen’s voice is slightly muffled by her mask, but clear enough for her to hear it.

“You move on.”


	10. Gaol (pt 1)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The darkness is absolute, so it takes her eyes a minute to adjust to it, but she can make out rusted iron bars: she must be inside a jail cell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow I did take a while to update this again huh. Anyway, this is the first part of something I have been picking at since I defeated the Blood-Starved Beast months ago; it's the first time I post something in parts, and honestly I wasn't gonna but it's a bit too long. 
> 
> As usual, this wasn't beta'd and I barely even checked the grammar but you're here so enjoy I guess?

It’s been a while since anyone or anything took her by surprise in Cathedral Ward.

Perhaps that’s why, after chopping down the mob that hangs around the entrance to Alfred’s small sanctuary, on her way to see him, The Hunter forgets to look over her shoulder, and doesn’t realize there is someone behind her, approaching her from her blind side, until it’s too late.

The icy feeling of needles in the back of her neck, that usually doesn’t fail her, comes a second too late, and by the time she turns around, the enemy is nearly on top of her.

Whatever this is, she has the time to notice, is  _ incredibly _ tall, vaguely humanoid, pale as a corpse, and wears a tattered hood that smells of mildew and dust-but she doesn’t get to stop and have a second look.

The creature raises his arm-he’s holding something: a sack, perhaps?-and then brings it down, and it hits her so hard on the side of the head she hears something crack inside her skull, and the blow sends her flying against a nearby wall, where she hits her head again. She doesn’t even have time to gasp in surprise.

The world spins as her body loses strength and she falls to the ground. She hears heavy footsteps as her attacker walks towards her, and when he leans over her, it’s like there’s nothing under his hood but darkness.

Mia Hawke closes her eyes, and the darkness swallows her whole.

The sensation of being suffocated is so intense when she wakes up, that she panics before realizing that the hood covering her face is loose and that she can actually see through it, albeit faintly.

She flails clumsily as she tries to sit up and rip the hood off her face, and it takes her almost two whole minutes to do so, as the blow she received early seems to make it hard for her limbs to act the way she needs them; but when it’s finally off, she takes a deep, gasping breath, and shakes her head to make sure there’s nothing else around it.

The air tastes like dust, like decay.

Mia pushes herself back until she feels a wall behind her, and that helps her ground herself. She takes a few moments to try and calm herself down, patting herself up and down to reassure herself that she has no significant wounds besides the pulsing, dull throb on her head where her kidnapper hit her, and only then she finally looks up and around her.

The darkness is absolute, so it takes her eyes a minute to adjust to it, but she can make out rusted iron bars: she must be inside a jail cell.

Great.

The Hunter tries to listen carefully to her surroundings: since she can’t see much, she wants to detect any possible threats before she runs into them, but to her infinite annoyance, the only thing she hears is the thrumming of blood in her ears. She doesn’t want to admit it, but she has to face it. She’s  _ terrified. _ She’s never been good with closed spaces, and the darkness and the stank of air that hasn’t been stirred in ages are oppressive and impossible to ignore. Fear is like an iron corset that clenches around her torso: she needs to breathe, to remain calm. If there’s a way in, there’s a way out. Slowly, she decides to finally use the wall to push herself up and stand on her shaky legs.

When she moves, something next to her produces a metallic clatter next to her, and unable to help herself, she lets out a startled cry, almost falling over in her haste to get away from it, before catching herself and clenching her teeth to hold back the urge to give into panic. No, it can’t be, she thinks. But yes. Yes, it is. She pats the space around her until her fingers find the object that produced the noise: she almost wants to cry when she feels the familiar shape of the handle of her Hunter’s Axe.

She pats the floor again, searching, and yes, sure enough, she finds what she’s looking for: her torch is there too. Whoever tossed her into that cell didn’t think of taking away her weapons, and whether it was simple neglect or that they just don’t think she’ll manage to find a way out even when armed, she doesn’t want to think about it. Her hands are shaking badly, but after a minute or so of fumbling, she lights up the torch, and once the space around her is flooded by the warm glow of the flame, she finally feels herself calming down enough to breathe normally, panic finally receding enough to allow her brain to function again.

Again, she takes a minute to compose herself, to will her hands to stop shaking, her heart to stop beating like a bird inside a cage against her ribcage. She wills herself to think like a human being again. Instinct is useful, but right now, she needs her thoughts. The thoughts in question are of a childish simplicity: get up, find a way out, kill whatever gets in the way-but they’re better than what she had ten minutes ago, which is pretty much nothing. Mia gets up at last, when she’s sure that her legs won’t give in, and walks towards the door of the cell.

To her surprise, the door is unlocked. It swings open with a deafening screech of old rust that makes her wince and brace herself for the worst, but to her surprise, nobody seems to come running to check. She waits, completely still, until she realizes her entire body is cramping with the effort of holding the position, but nothing happens. Absolutely dumbfounded now, she lowers her weapons and looks around before stepping out of her cell.

She can  _ tell _ she isn’t alone; she perceives the presence of other people within this place like she perceives the roof above her even though it is so high that the light of her torch doesn’t reach it (her senses have become heightened to an almost alarming degree lately, since she defeated the Blood Starved Beast: she can even sense the presence of a lamp not too far away, waiting to be lit,  _ above _ from where she’s standing, though she doesn’t precisely understand  _ how _ ). But she can’t still  _ see _ anyone. The Hunter doesn’t know where she is, or where the nearest exit might be, but she can feel a faint draft coming from her left, so she decides to follow it, holding her axe tight in her left hand.

It feels like she walks for ages. The space is divided by rusty bars bent out of shape, and what at first she takes for bundles of rags turn out to be other prisoners-none of them in conditions to speak, all of them Yharnamites with decayed pupils that she kills without much guilt. 

She’s starting to wonder if she’s ever gonna find a way out, or if she will have to commit suicide in order to leave this oppressive darkness, when suddenly she realizes that the noise that her teeth make when she grinds them is no longest the only thing she can hear: something, a frantic whisper, so fast and inarticulate it’s almost a low buzz, gets louder as she walks, keeping the wall to her right to maintain a semblance of orientation.

The Hunter grips her axe harder. She can see someone, now, kneeling behind a few urns of incense in a corner, and that’s where the whispering is coming. Whoever it is, they haven’t noticed the light of her torch or the sound of her steps: Hawke clenches her jaw tighter, and raises her axe to strike…

  
  
  
  
  



	11. Gaol (pt 2)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “T-the Healing Church” the nun mumbles frantically. “You've come to save me...”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part 2! Again, this is just me rewriting the Hunter's first time meeting an NPC into a more elaborate scene or something. This time it's Adella the nun, because I love her. I had more intelligent things to say about this chapter but my brain has worms in it. If it's bad it's on you for having expectations

… And then suddenly, the woman turns around and looks at her, eyes huge with terror, and she  _ shrieks _ , raising her hands to stop her.

“No!  _ Please! _ ” The surprise of hearing her articulate words causes Mia to freeze-but the momentum of the axe carries her forward, and she is thrown against the nun, and they both tumble to the ground, knocking over urns and causing an infernal cacophony of metal and broken pottery. The Hunter lands right on top of the other woman, the edge of her axe missing her head by inches.

“ _ Shhhh!! _ ” the nun frantically hisses, after the noise subdues, and for a minute or so, the two women lay there, motionless, listening for footsteps.

Hawke only moves away when she felt her arms starting to burn with the strain of holding herself up above the nun-only to immediately have her cling to her robes. Mia tries to pull away, still strung up with tension, but the other woman only clings harder. She is pale as a sheet, her eyes so wide with fear they look ready to fall out of their sockets, and she is shaking like a leaf.

“T-the Healing Church” the nun mumbles frantically. “You've come to save me...” It takes Mia a moment to understand what she means, before realizing that she is wearing the same black robes at the nun-the black church garb the Dweller at the Chapel had given her. 

“I-” she starts to say, but the nun all but throws her arms around her neck before she can speak, and the Hunter lands on her ass, stiff as a board with surprise and discomfort at being touched like this.

“Ahh! Thank you, dear saint!” the nun blurts. “I have no words to express my relief...” Before she can say anything else, the Hunter grabs her by the shoulders and as gently as she can, pries her off herself, holding her at arm’s distance to look at her in the eye. Now that she can see her clearly, she realizes that the nun is young, probably younger than her-early 20s, perhaps? Her fine, heart shaped face, and her large eyes make her seem even younger.

“Hey” Mia snaps, as firmly as she can without being unnecessarily rude, a task considerably harder than it should by the terror she herself feels. Her tone startles the other woman, who blinks in surprise. “Pull yourself together. I’ll help you… but you need to put yourself together.” She squeezes the nun’s shoulders gently. “Do you understand me?”

The young woman nods after a moment of hesitation. There’s tears in her eyes still, and her face is white like polished bone, but she swallows hard to compose herself. 

“T-thank you so much” she blurts, quieter this time, her tone no longer frantic, even though she’s still shaking. She wipes tears at the corner of her eye in an endearing, almost childlike gesture. “I… I was seized on the street by a hulking brute in the C-cathedral Ward and locked up here. T-there were many others, but they've been taken away…” Her lip starts quivering again. “A-and I've heard moans, echoing in the distance, ever since…”

Hawke tries to swallow down her irritation: she didn’t really mean to get the woman to start talking when what she needs her is to shut up, but she doesn’t stop her. After all, she herself was praying to find a living person who hadn’t lost their mind in this prison until a few moments ago. 

“I’ll get us out of here” she says, trying to sound reassuring. “Just… keep it together, okay?” 

The nun nods again, clasping her hands together.

“S-so, the hunt is on tonight?” she asks. “Then… then the streets are perilous… And every door will be shut tight…” she starts shaking again, and her large eyes fix on Mia’s with so much intensity she feels the strange urge to look away. “P-perhaps it isn't my place to ask, but... Do you know somewhere that might take me in?" Her tone is so pleading, a lump forms in the Hunter’s throat. 

This time, she makes the effort to initiate the contact, placing her hands around the nun’s.

“As a matter of fact, I do” she answers. “The Chapel of Oedon is open. It’s safe there, there’s more than enough incense to last the night, and there’s already some people there.” The young woman’s eyes fill with grateful tears. 

“Oh!” she blurts, her voice again shrill, nearly hysteric. “T-thank you so much!!” The nun grabs Mia’s hands and pulls them to her chest, shaking like a rabbit as the tears spill down her cheeks. It takes the Hunter a minute to wrench her hands out of the other woman’s grip, while trying to be as delicate as possible.

“I’ll clear you a path to the exit” she explains, trying to remain patient. The nun looks up again at her, terrified.

“Please don’t leave me alone again!” she begs, and once more, Hawke almost looks away, uncomfortable. The nun looks ready to grab her hands again, so the Hunter reacts by taking her pale, heart shaped face in her hands. She holds the woman in place, forcing her to look at her in the eye, forcing back the urge to look away. Seen this way, from so close, it’s very evident how young she actually is. Mia tries to be as gentle as she can.

“What is your name?” Mia asks, trying to keep her tone as calm as possible. The nun swallows, and then blinks back tears.

“A-Adella… my name is Adella.”

“Listen, Adella. I am a hunter” she explains patiently. “I  _ can _ fight. I  _ will _ find a way out. But I can’t fight if I have to look out for you.” The nun is clearly trying really hard not to cry, so Mia speaks a little faster. “I will clear the way, and then I  _ will _ come back for you.”

Adella swallows again.

“D-do you promise?” she whispers. Mia uses her thumb to wipe a tear off her cheek as gently as she can.

“I promise.” 

Adella, the nun, lets out a small sigh and finally, finally, seems to truly calm down. She places her hands on her lap, and nods, and when Mia lets go of her, she nods again and this time she offers her a smile-weak, fragile, but a smile whatsoever. Again, she wipes the tears off her face with shaky hands.

“T-thank you…” she mumbles. “I… I'll wait for you, then.”

Mia nods too. She picks up her axe and her torch, and finally stands up. Adella looks up at her and smiles again.

“I pray for success on your hunt, kind hunter.”


	12. Gaol (pt 3)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Oh, brave Hunter!” Adella immediately says, obviously in the verge of tears. “You’re alive!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've never tried to write this many characters in a single scene before so it's kind of a mess. Also this time I felt like throwing in a couple of summon characters (Old Hunter Henriett and Defector Antal) and gave them personalities and a role because I love them and they deserve some attention. I do what I want. 
> 
> Anyway this is the last part of my Hunter's trip to the Hypogean Gaol. Enjoy or something

The Hunter materializes in the Chapel of Oedon and the first thing she hears is a squeak of surprise, and then a delighted gasp.

“She’s here!”

“Thank Oedon!”

Mia barely has time to blink before she’s enveloped in a tight embrace, and her face is crushed against a woman’s chest, and she freezes in place for a moment. The scent of jasmine and blood is unmistakable.

Wiggling slightly, she manages to pull away, holding Arianna by the shoulders.

“Hi, Arianna” she says, hoping she doesn’t look as frazzled and shocked as she feels, because her face is burning. The woman beams.

“And here we thought you were dead for good!” she blurts in response. The Hunter cocks her eyebrow.

“You did?”

“We were worried!” the Chapel Dweller adds, making both turn to look at him. He gives them an anxious little smile. “That holy woman, you told her about this place, right?”

Mia stares blankly for a second before understanding what he means. Her only eye lights up.

“Adella?” she blurts, turning to Arianna. “She’s here? She made it?”

Arianna smiles and moves aside to allow her to look towards the farthest corner of the Chapel.

Someone moves from behind a column-and Mia feels relief wash over her when she recognizes Adella’s dark hair and sad doe eyes. The nun’s face lights up-but she doesn’t move out of her corner, apparently intimidated by the rest of the Chapel’s occupants.

“Henriett brought her a while ago” Arianna explains. “She wouldn’t stop crying, saying that you were dead. She was inconsolable.”

The Hunter’s heart seizes slightly.

“She doesn’t offer much in the way of conversation” the Dweller adds. “I don’t think she’ll be able to, until she sees you’re safe and sound. “He tilts his head towards Adella. “You should go reassure her, dear Hunter.”

Hawke nods and finally lets go of Arianna, all but jumping down the steps towards Adella, who finally stops hugging the column to meet her, wringing her hands nervously.

“Oh, brave Hunter!” Adella immediately says, obviously in the verge of tears. “You’re alive!” Fearing that the nun will start crying again, or worse, that she’ll try to hug her too, Mia stands at a prudent distance.

“I am so sorry, Adella” she replies. “I didn’t mean to leave you alone there. Just...”

“It is quite alright” the other woman says, offering a teary smile. “The man from Yahar’gul… the one that was helping you fight the lightning beast. He helped me find my way to Old Yharnam...”

_ I owe you one, Antal _ , Mia thinks, letting out a small sigh. Poor Antal: she’d almost attacked him on sight when they’d found him entering the Darkbeast’s territory, and yet he’d still fought alongside with her-and then she’d died, leaving him and Adella behind. She’d been avoiding the chapel, and sticking with Djura, the old man in the tower in Old Yharnam, because the thought of having lost the nun was unbearable. It was good to know the man was alive, and that he had even helped Adella escape.

“A-and then the other lady Hunter...” Adella adds, sniffing a little bit.

“Henriett” Mia says, making the nun nod energetically. The name of the older hunter almost makes Mia smile: she definitely also owes Henriett more than one. They met a few times before, when Mia was on her way to fight the Vicar, and struck something similar to friendship. She’s been the one escorting the refugees from Cathedral Ward to the Chapel while Mia hunts, and despite being almost as dry and socially awkward as Mia, she seems to have earned herself the affection of everyone there, particularly Arianna’s.

“She said she was your friend, and brought me here” Adella explains. She’s starting to shake a little bit: anticipating another breakdown, Mia pulls out a handkerchief from her pocket and hands it to her, and the nun takes it with a trembling hand to dab the corners of her eyes. “A-and I thought I’d never see you again, and…!” Her voice breaks, and she bursts into tears again, covering her mouth with Mia’s handkerchief.

Awkwardly, Mia looks back at Arianna, who gives her a small shrug and a smile, and to the old woman, who has buried her nose in a book and is doing what she does best (pretending that nothing is happening around her). The Chapel Dweller seems very interested in the door to the basement.

Finally, she turns towards Adella again, and awkwardly places a hand on her shoulder.

“It’s alright, Adella” she says after a moment, hoping to sound comforting. To her relief, the nun actually does seem to relax slightly. She looks up at her again, eyes full of tears still; she isn’t bad looking at all, Mia thinks-even after crying, her dark brown eyes are surprisingly gentle and her pale face has a pleasant roundness to it. Here in the light, she can also tell she’s much younger than she’d thought-probably around Alfred’s age, maybe a decade younger than herself.

“T-thank you very much” Adella says, giving her another shaky smile. “The town is in disarray, but there are still people here...” she takes a look around nervously. “Together, we await the help of the Healing Church...”

_ It’s going to be a while _ , the Hunter thinks, remembering the state of the world outside the Chapel, but decides against saying anything, because Adella looks on the verge of tears again.

She realizes how small the Chapel seems now, compared to the endless darkness of the Gaol, and to the open skies above Djura’s tower, and realizes that she  _ likes it _ . The space has slowly started to become more homely as more people come to take refuge in there, and she understands why the Chapel Dweller is so excited every time she brings someone new: it’s impossible to feel lonely inside those walls, and when there’s so many people around you, you feel stronger and safer from the dangers of the night.

She hopes Adella will feel at home here, because after what she’s gone through, she deserves it.


End file.
